Grave Man
by ThatsElementary
Summary: John was only visiting his grave, he didn't expect a dead man to start talking back to him. He was broken before, but his realisation of Sherlock's fake death has tore him apart even more, maybe even beyond repair.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: Yes, I did watch the last episode of Sherlock again, and yes, it made me cry, again. Why, oh why do I put myself through the torture? Ah yes, because freakin' Benedict Cumberbatch! By the way ... hope you enjoy the story and stuffff. Review if you feel like it, maybe, sure? Ok.

"Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man." - Mercutio.

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It all started with a simple visit at the graveyard. John hadn't been planning on staying long; just a simple hello would have sufficed. He didn't expect a dead man to talk back to him, not after three months of grieving for the dead man.

It was a Monday and John had stayed clear of the apartment ever since the … accident. He wouldn't call it what it was, a fall, a purposeful act of death. He couldn't handle that, not yet, nor did he think ever. It was the first time he'd braved to re-enter 221B Baker Street, and even now, he didn't feel remotely brave.

Mrs Hudson hid her shuddering breaths, she didn't say anything, her anger had faded for Sherlock, and all she had left now was the terrible feeling of sadness. All she managed to utter, quietly and hardly distinct, to John was, 'Good luck.' Then she scurried away.

Sighing and tension twisting his stomach, he entered the apartment and stopped just beyond the door. _Still the same mess_, he thought, his eyes scanning the room. Nothing seemed out of place, not even the skull.

Memories hit him like bullets, everything that had ever happened in this apartment, which was a lot, came rushing back to him. All those clever snarky remarks Sherlock had made, forgotten in his angst, came back now, painful as a knife stabbing into his flesh. Remembering him, it was like looking through a half-remembered dream. _Was that man real? _But the doctor quickly dismissed the thought, it was just what Sherlock wanted, to question his identity. He wasn't going to give Sherlock that satisfaction.

After hours of searching through stuff of his, he found himself unable to actually throw anything away. That had been the initial job of his visit, but it was like an invisible force stopped him. He couldn't do it, every beat of his heart screamed at him not to. 'Damn you Sherlock.' he grumbled, cursing his buried friend.

On his miserable way out, Mrs Hudson stopped him. She'd noticed the lack of bags of Sherlock's stuff. 'Couldn't bring yourself to do it, dear?'

John shook his head. Mrs Hudson offered a sympathetic look, and then disappeared once again to her previous activity. On the spur of the moment, and the feeling of failure lying low in his stomach, John decided to go to Sherlock's grave. Give him a visit, and tell him of his disappointment, something Sherlock would have surely scoffed at, told him the disadvantages of caring and how such act, (or lack of) had proved this. He found himself smiling just at the thought of it. _Smiling to thin air, now are we, Watson? I must be going crazy, _John thought. Well, what sort of sane person could live with Sherlock?

He called a cab and muttered his destination. It didn't take long, and when he got out he breathed the musty London air, droplets of rain starting to fall from the clouded sky. John didn't see the rain as a dismaying thing, it only reflected his mood.

When he reached Sherlock's gravestone, he stood there. He didn't speak, he didn't blink, he didn't even allow himself to think. Emptiness. John didn't know how long he stood there in the rain, only that it was long enough to hear Sherlock's voice again.

'Are you not going to say anything?' his deep voice said.

'Oh God, guess its official now: I'm insane.' Watson murmured.

He didn't want to turn around, where he felt the presence, because he didn't think he would be able to handle the nothingness that would greet him if he did. He didn't want to allow himself to hope, he couldn't, because if he hoped it would mean that hope could get crushed.

'Turn around.' the voice demanded, as Sherlock always tended to do.

He stayed frozen in place, staring at his grave. _No no no no, I can't._

'Please John.' his voice pleaded. He had never heard Sherlock beg, not until the fall. He hoped he would never hear it again, but the shocking amount of emotion that charged his plead was what did it for him. With tears filling his eyes and him mentally preparing for disappointment, John turned … A pause, then …

SMACK!

Sherlock staggered from the strength of John's punch. 'What the hell Sherlock?' came John's cry. 'You're r-really here? How? You can't be … You're dead! I saw you fall, I saw your lifeless body, and I checked your pulse!' John grabbed Sherlock's collar and pulled him close and growled at him, 'You let me believe you were dead! I'm broken, look at me Sherlock. I can't even go back to our apartment without feeling empty, or questioning if you were real. I failed! I'm a failure, how did I not know? How, how did I not realise?' his voice faded out as he collapsed on his knees and cried.

'John.' Sherlock said, not knowing what he could do as Watson broke down.

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A/N: If you're wondering why the chapter is so small, it's because I'm not sure to carry on the story or not, if I am, I'll add more onto this chapter. If you're not wondering because you don't care - cheers for visiting!


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